


Born In The Wagon Of A Travelling Show

by tibididim



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Background Slash, Crack, Gen, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-19
Updated: 2010-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tibididim/pseuds/tibididim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was born in the wagon of a travelling show, Mycroft had to dance for the money they'd throw. Mummy'd do whatever she could - preach a little gospel, sell a couple bottles of Doctor Good. (Sherlock was sixteen, John was twenty-one, and Mummy would've shot him if she knew what he'd done.) I'M SO SORRY.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Born In The Wagon Of A Travelling Show

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a sherlockbbc_fic prompt. As if you couldn't tell.

The stars glittered coldly. A few scattered bits of applause made their way up the valley; the last few acts were finishing up. It didn’t sound like they’d done too badly.

“I wish they wouldn’t throw so many pound coins,” Mycroft muttered. “Cheapskates.” He fluttered his skirt irritably and crouched down next to Sherlock by the fire. “And they _hurt_.” He began to count his takings.

Sherlock, busy adding more wood, rolled his eyes. “Don’t get into a flounce. At least you always get something for your effort.” He shunted the kettle back to the centre of the fire, where it was burning more fiercely.

Mycroft patted his brother on the back. Sherlock shrugged him away, “Don’t patronise me, just because you and Mummy decided I wasn’t _good enough_ to dance! Wasn’t pretty enough - didn’t have the coordination - couldn’t flirt with the customers! And now her arthritis is playing up, and my violin playing isn’t going to bring in much -”

“If you’d only play what people asked you to! Do requests, you little fool; _I_ do requests, and they aren’t too nice, I can tell you!”

Sherlock pulled the spare horse blanket tighter around him, and thought furiously about warmth, as if thinking it could make it happen. Arguing with Mycroft never helped. Mummy did what she could. They all did. But Mycroft seemed to think his exotic dancing was what kept the whole show going, and sometimes Sherlock thought he was right.

Sixteen years ago that day, Sherlock had been born, in the back of Mummy’s wagon as the show trailed along muddy roads. She’d turned from dancing to preaching when she fell pregnant again, like she’d done with Mycroft, and switched back once Sherlock was old enough to look after himself. These days she sold tonics and miracle cures, read a few palms; she did okay. But then, she was good with people. She could tell them what they wanted to hear.

Sherlock had tried fortune telling, but frightened people far too much.

He could see in his peripheral vision Mycroft is trying to sneak a glance over at him, and interrupts dully, “Don’t even say it.”

“Say _what_ , Sherlock?” Mycroft mocked. “That _he_ won’t come back for you? That your lovely _doctor_ will forget all about you once you’re two days away from this town?”

“He’s not a doctor,” said Sherlock, fiercely enough to keep the tears at bay. It almost worked. “He’s in training. Learn the difference.” _And he’s going to be a wonderful doctor_ , he thought, _and he’ll be such a brave soldier, and he’ll find me when he comes back from Afghanistan, he promised he would_.

“I’ll tell Mummy if you sneak away to see him.”

Sherlock sneered. “You haven’t yet. You won’t. You like having secrets too much.” He stood up, suddenly filled with purpose. “Besides, I know too many of yours,” and he ran off down the valley, towards the lights of the town, practically skipping with delight.

And twenty minutes lates, the almost exactly twenty-one-year-old trainee doctor John Watson held Sherlock Holmes close under the stars, and told him he was beautiful.


End file.
